“What did Con say?”
“He wasn’t home. Neighbor said he and Stacy Oliphant went off to Cabo for a couple of weeks. Sport fishing, I gather. We’ll chat with the homicide detectives tomorrow and hope they have information to trade. Your old boyfriend still assigned to the crimes against persons unit?”
“Who, Jonah? He was never a
boyfriend
. He was a guy I dated when his wife wasn’t jerking him around.”
“Really. I don’t think I knew about him. I was talking about the other one. Curly-haired fellow whose dad has all the dough.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I said, though I knew perfectly well he was referring to Cheney Phillips.
I wasn’t sure how he could contemplate the subject of my so-called love life. If I’d known he’d been involved with two other women, I’d have been too insecure to mention either one. In my opinion, this was exactly the sort of issue that lengthy and frequent separations bring to the fore. I didn’t want to “share.” I was an only child and I still tend to cling to the notion of “what’s mine is mine.” Actually, Deitz was an only child as well, but he’d gone to the other extreme. Where I was possessive, he was laissez-faire, a free-market kind of guy. I knew it was his coping mechanism, but I wasn’t sure how it worked. Maybe he was casual about bonds because he was always out the door and always moving on. He had no interest in putting down roots. To him, life was a slide show and he was happy with the change of scene. He liked stimulation and novelty. He didn’t attach emotional meaning to what I did, especially since he felt it had nothing to do with him. I don’t understand how men can operate like that. Given my abandonment issues (and I confess I hate talk of that sort), I was always in danger of losing what I longed for most—stability, closeness, belonging. In my head, I knew better. Being needy is actually a way of keeping others at bay. It may seem attractive to those addicted to rescue, but the yearning can never be fulfilled and the clinging ends up driving folks away. Why would you want someone hanging around your neck, worried you don’t care enough and asking for constant reassurance on the point?
“I think we should do something,” I said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Let’s get out of here.”
He folded the paper and put his bare feet on the floor, feeling around for his loafers. “I’m game, though I’d prefer to have a plan.”
“I’m thinking we should take a look at Pete’s office. Maybe he actually has a partner with a shitload of cash. You can collect and be on your way.”
“I didn’t say I was leaving.”
“But you will.”
“You have a bad attitude.”
“I know, but it’s the only one I have.”
• • •
We took Dietz’s car to avoid the wear and tear on my spare tire. The drive into town was a simple matter of taking Cabana to State and hanging a left. Pete’s office was on Granita in a building that had seen better days. We found street parking in a small lot nearby. The neighborhood was funky. The entire block would doubtless be bought someday soon, razed, and replaced with a more lucrative concern: a parking garage, a condominium complex, a hotel of a modest chain. Pete’s ground-floor office was marked A.
The agency had apparently never been graced with a sign hanging out front. The names Able and Wolinsky were still lettered on the plate-glass window in black and gold decals that had largely flaked and fallen away. In the lower right-hand corner a For Lease sign had been propped with a contact number. There was no realtor or property manager mentioned by name. Dietz jotted down the phone number while I peered through the glass.
The office consisted of one large room with a closet. I was guessing he had access to the executive restroom, located down the hall and open to the public. His space was bare of furniture. The closet door stood open, revealing an empty hanging rod and a few makeshift shelves. There was a second door in the middle of the back wall that probably opened into an interior corridor. Knowing Pete as I did, I imagined a number of hasty departures when circumstances warranted his absenting himself on short notice. As this was Sunday, the offices on either side of his were closed.
“You want to track down the property manager?” Dietz asked.
“I’d rather see if Pete’s wife is available.”
• • •
I remembered Pete’s home address from the days when the Byrd-Shine agency was still in business. While I was accruing my training hours, I also made coffee and ran errands for the two. If Pete was late turning in a report, I’d be sent over to pick up the paperwork. The Wolinsky house was ten blocks away; a story and a half of white frame with a small recessed porch barely large enough for the two dusty white wicker chairs arranged to one side. Two sets of double windows sat one above the other. A single diamond-shaped pane to the right suggested attic space. The window frames and the trim pieces around the front door were painted dark blue. An enormous eucalyptus tree in the front yard was leaning drunkenly to one side where the edge of the porch prevented its upright growth.
I twisted the handle on the mechanical doorbell. The resultant response mimicked an alarm clock going off. Ruthie Wolinsky opened the door. I hadn’t seen her for many years, but she looked much the same—tall, very slim, with long thinning hair brushed away from her face. She wore a long-sleeve white lace blouse and a long denim skirt with boots. She was easily sixty years old, and while the headband might have looked incongruous on anyone else, it was perfect on her. Her hair color had shifted from mild brown to gray with much of the original shade still in evidence. Her brows were pale over mild green eyes. Soft lines defined her elongated face with its high forehead. When she saw me, recognition flickered, but it had been far too long for her to recall my name.
“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Pete and I were professional acquaintances years ago.”
“I remember you,” she said as her gaze shifted to Dietz.
“This is my colleague, Robert Dietz.”
Her gaze returned to mine. “You know Pete was shot to death in August.”
“I heard about that and I’m sorry.” Already, I admired the straightforward manner in which she conveyed the information. No euphemisms; no attempt to soften the facts.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
Dietz said, “I’m a Nevada PI. I did some work for Pete last May—a four-day surveillance in a Reno hotel. There’s a balance outstanding on the account.”
“You’ll have to get in line with everyone else. Pete died without a penny to his name. His creditors are still swarming out of the woodwork.”
“We’re hoping to pursue another approach. One that won’t involve you,” I said.
She stared for a moment, making up her mind, and then held open the wooden screen door. “You’re welcome to come in. I’m not liable for his debts, but I don’t mind listening to what you have to say.”
Dietz and I stepped into the foyer. There was a living room to our left, and she led the way to a small seating area. Dietz and I sat side by side on an upholstered settee that probably didn’t get much use. I suspected she occupied cozier rooms at the back of the house.
“How are you doing?” I asked. “It must be difficult.”
“I’m getting along well enough, though every other day, a new problem seems to crop up.”
“Such as what?”
“People like you arriving at my door,” she said. Her smile was slight and carried no rebuke. “I’ve stopped opening his mail. There’s no point in knowing about bills when there’s nothing I can do.”
“What are the police telling you?”
“Not much. They were interested at first. Now other cases have taken precedence.”
“No suspect?”
She shook her head. “They think he was killed with his own gun, which was missing from the scene. He took his Glock and his Smith and Wesson with him everywhere. Especially if he went out at night, he wouldn’t have been without one or the other. Usually he carried both.”
“Both of his guns are gone?”
“Just the Glock. His pocket pistol was returned to me. They found that in the trunk of his car. They believe there was a second gun involved, also missing. A Lieutenant Phillips is handling the case. I’m sure he could tell you more.”
“You have no idea why he was out that night?”
“He was an insomniac, so he was out many nights, roaming the streets. There was nothing unusual about that night, at least as far as I know.”
“No business dealings that might have gone sour?”
“He mentioned a job coming up and he was optimistic about his prospects. I have no idea what came of it.”
“What about friends? Was there anyone he might have confided in?”
“You knew Pete. He was a loner. He didn’t have friends or confidants.”
Dietz said, “Were you aware he was in financial straits?”
“I suspected as much, though his affairs are in much worse shape than I thought. He’d let his life insurance lapse. He had nothing in savings, his checking account was in overdraft, and his credit cards were maxed out. I knew he had problems, but I had no idea of the magnitude. When we got married, we swore we’d be honest with one another, but his pride sometimes got in the way. The house is paid for, but both our names are on the deed. I haven’t talked to an attorney but I’m hoping I won’t have to sell or take out a mortgage to satisfy his creditors.”
“Did he leave a will?”
“I haven’t found one so far. That was the sort of thing he postponed. In his mind, there was always time.”
“What about assets?” Dietz said. “I’m not asking from self-interest. I’m wondering if there’s anything you might’ve overlooked.”
“I’m surprised he hadn’t filed for bankruptcy. I have two accounts in my name that he had no access to or he might have gone through those as well. It was easy come, easy go with him.”
“A free spirit,” I suggested.
“Not free, from my perspective,” she said, tartly.
I noted the flash of heat with a feeling of relief. She was keeping her anger in check, but it was there.
She went on, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Two months ago he told me he was setting money aside for our anniversary. Next year would have been our fortieth and he wanted us to go on a river cruise. I didn’t take him seriously, but I was hoping he’d managed to tuck a little something away. If I could lay hands on anything, I could at least pay the noisiest of his creditors.”
“You haven’t found anything?”
She shook her head. “I’ve turned this house upside down and there’s nothing except for the twenty-two dollars’ worth of coins he tossed in a jar.”
“No investments?”
“Oh, please. No stocks, no bonds, no annuities,” she said. “He drove a Ford Fairlane with over two hundred thousand miles on the odometer. The police impounded the car at the scene, but it’s since been returned. I sold it for a hundred dollars and I was delighted to get that much. The new owner’s picking it up later in the week. It’s parked out back if you’d like to take a look. Maybe he stashed a winning lottery ticket in the glove compartment.”
Her tone carried a touch of irony, but she wasn’t being sarcastic or self-mocking. She must have been appalled at the position he’d left her in.
Dietz said, “What about you, do you work?”
“I’m a private-duty nurse. I make more than adequate money for my personal needs. Even if I’m forced to mortgage the house, I’ll be fine, but it’s not what I pictured at this stage of my life.”
“I’m sorry we’ve had to burden you with this along with everything else,” he said.
“How much did he owe you?”
“A little more than three thousand dollars.”
She said, “I apologize.”
“Not your fault,” Dietz said.
“You mentioned another approach.”
Dietz said, “A long shot. It’s possible Pete hadn’t been paid for the job he subbed out to me. If we can take a look at his files, we might find his account receivables and collect from the client instead of having to worry you.”
“If someone owed him money, wouldn’t the income count as part of his estate?”
“All I know is I did the work and I’d like to be paid.”
She considered the request and then seemed to shrug. “There are files in the garage. He’d been carting home boxes a few at a time over a period of weeks. I realize now he was worried about being evicted and wanted to be prepared.” She rose to her feet. “You can follow me if you like.”
On the way through the house, she picked up a set of car keys from a kitchen drawer. We followed her across a yard that was stripped down and unadorned. The grass, already in its dormant phase, had turned a dispirited shade of brown. It was clear neither she nor Pete had made any effort outdoors. An empty bird feeder hung from a branch of a dwarf citrus tree, but there were no other signs of attention to the exterior, which seemed to have survived in spite of them. The two-car garage was a separate white-frame structure located at the rear of the property. Ruthie let us in through a side door.
The two sets of double doors that opened onto the alleyway were operated by hand, and it was clear neither had been used in years. The hinges were dark brown with rust, and cobwebs lined the crevices, like fake Halloween effects. Spiders had set up small nurseries, swaddling their eggs in gauzy tapers until time to hatch. The floor was concrete, though little of it showed. There was no room for cars given the staggering number of cardboard boxes in evidence, among other things. The space was jammed with old furniture, power tools, lamps, file cabinets, crates, broken appliances, luggage, discarded doors, and miscellaneous lawn equipment, also rusted from neglect. Dilapidated cartons were stacked ten deep and eight high, sealed with masking tape and unmarked. Some had toppled over and their contents had fallen out and been left where they landed. The air smelled of mice and dust.
“Is this everything?” Dietz asked, not quite masking the plaintiveness in his tone.
“I’m afraid not. I haven’t been able to face his office, so the furniture and any remaining files will be there. I know his rent was in arrears and I don’t have the nerve to contact his landlady for fear I’ll be forced to pay up. I’ll give you the key if you want to go through his desk and his file cabinets.”
I said, “We stopped by Pete’s office earlier. The place has been cleaned out.”
She seemed surprised and then recovered herself. “Well, that’s one more tiresome chore I don’t have to bother with. I’m still emptying closets and drawers here. I can’t tell you how many trips I’ve made to Goodwill. Some of the items I’ve dropped off are an embarrassment, but I didn’t want to throw them in the trash.”
“What about his business records? You’ll have the IRS to deal with eventually,” I said.
“They’ll just have to come after me,” she said. “I don’t have any idea what he paid in the way of state or federal taxes. I took care of property taxes and he did the rest.”
“You filed jointly?”
“We did,” she said. “I made sure he had my W-2s and any relevant receipts. He’d have me sign the forms, but I really never looked at them.”
I didn’t press the point. I wondered why she’d trust him with filing state and federal tax returns when he was so irresponsible, but she had problems enough and her relationship with the government wasn’t any business of mine.
I said, “We’ll probably be out here for a while. You want us to let you know when we’re done?”
“No need. We leave the garages unlocked. If I’m lucky someone will come along and steal everything.”
She handed over the car keys and left us to our task. Judging from surface dust and the ribbons of ratty tape coming loose here and there, the majority of the boxes had sat untouched for years. We left those alone and focused on the ones that were clean, intact, and closest to the door. As far as I could tell, Pete had no system. His approach was to dump cartons willy-nilly wherever he found room. Dietz hauled a couple of lawn chairs from the assortment of old furniture, which allowed us to sit in reasonable comfort while we searched.
“She’s a beautiful woman,” Dietz said. “She had more faith in the guy than he deserved.”
“Pete was a piece of work,” I said. “Homeliest man you ever laid eyes on. I have no idea what she saw in him.”
“What’s your take on the story about his putting money aside for a cruise?”
“Pete’s belief was if you expressed your desires, they’d manifest themselves. His phrase was ‘putting it out to the Universe.’ I’m not sure that entailed actual savings.”
We settled down to work. Most of Pete’s files were unmarked. Where folders were labeled, the tag might be scratched through with a subsequent name written over it in ink. Sometimes the label was gone or had nothing to do with the contents. There was no visible order to the folders he’d shoved into a particular box. Catalogs, old letters, unpaid bills, and unopened mail would be dumped unceremoniously into the same container. This forced us to sort page by page, doing a quick read as we went along. Dietz’s method was to put a stack of folders upright on his lap, pick his way through, and then return them to the box. I left the files where they were and hunched over each box, pulling out one folder at a time. Most were junk, but we didn’t dare toss anything because it wasn’t our job. Who knew what Ruthie might consider worth keeping?
After we’d labored an hour, I sat back. “This is pointless. We’re being optimistic thinking he’d even bother with anything so organized as ‘accounts receivable.’ More likely, he kept his cash in an old coffee can.”
“Sounds about right.”
For a moment, we sat and contemplated the disorder. Dietz said, “Let’s try his car. He might not have unloaded all of the boxes he’d brought.”
“Like the idea,” I said.
We restacked the boxes we’d searched and then angled our way across the garage, stepping over and around the jumble until we reached the door. A gate in the fence opened into the alley. Pete’s Ford Fairlane was parked in a wide place probably meant to accommodate trash cans. Those were now lined up against the shrubs, lids sitting like little caps on top of bulging black trash bags. There were no cardboard boxes in the backseat and none in the trunk. We found a bag of birdseed and a gun-cleaning kit, but that was it. No accounts payable, no accounts receivable, no contracts, and no recent correspondence. Certainly no caches of money tucked away. So much for our fishing expedition, which was disappointing, but not entirely fruitless. At least we’d written off a handful of dead ends. The glove compartment was jammed. I emptied it, piling the contents on the passenger seat, but there was nothing of significance as far as I could see. Gasoline receipts and parking tickets, plus paper trash of every conceivable sort. I returned all the miscellany and used brute force to get the glove compartment closed.
• • •
At 4:00, Dietz dropped me at my place while he returned to the hotel to shower. He said he’d be back to pick me up at 7:00. In an earlier conversation, he’d mentioned Emile’s for drinks and dinner, but he hadn’t mentioned it since. As I got out of the car, I leaned in the window. “What’s the dress code?”
“Wear what you have on.”
I looked down at my filthy hands and my sooty jeans and decided against. “I look like shit.”
“No, you don’t. You look cute.”
I watched him drive away, and I then passed through the gate and around to the rear patio, where I let myself into the studio. The first thing I did was to sit down at my desk. The bulky package Dace had mailed to himself had been sitting there since the volunteer had handed it over to me.
I pulled the mailer closer and turned it over. There was a tag at one end of the padded envelope and I tore the strip open along the length. Inside were medical charts for three patients: Terrence Dace, Charles Farmer, and a man named Sebastian Glenn. All three charts were fat with lab work, doctor’s notes, and medical reports. How had Dace managed to get his hands on them?
I took the bundle upstairs with me. I stood in the loft trying to think where I might stash the contents for safekeeping. I cleared the footlocker at the near end of my bed, removing a pile of heavy sweaters to make room for it. I closed the trunk and placed the stack of sweaters on top. Maybe Dandy would have some idea what Dace had in mind.
In the meantime, I went through my usual routine: shower, shampoo, and a change of clothes. Dietz and I were doing okay and I was happy with the pace we’d set. I wasn’t prepared to jump back into the relationship without getting my bearings first. For now, there was a blank space between us, packed with all of the moments that had flown by while we were apart. On prior occasions, when we’d come together after a separation, there was this same period of adjustment. Last round, I’d been cranky at first, only gradually letting down my guard. This time I was less resistant, but the chemistry was still on hold.
The phone rang as I was coming down the stairs. I picked up on the second ring to find Dietz on the line.
“Kink in the works. I just got a call from Nick. He’s on his way down from San Francisco.”
“What’s going on?”
“He says he’s taking time off work, but that’s as much as I know. He called from the road and said he’d explain the rest when he gets here.”
“Well, that’s worrisome.”
“Remains to be seen. He sounded fine.”
“What time’s he getting in?”
“Depends on where he was when he called. The city’s a six-hour drive, so I’m guessing ten at the earliest.”
“If you want to take a rain check on dinner, it’s fine with me.”
“Let’s don’t do that. Nick’s a big boy. If he gets in while I’m out, he can pick up a key and make himself at home. I’ll leave word for him at the desk.”
“Here’s another plan. Why don’t I come over to the hotel and we can order room service? That way if he gets in, you’ll be on the premises.”
“Not a bad idea, but it’s up to you.”
“We can go out another night.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not a bit,” I said.
“Great. I’ll see you shortly.”
I hung up, found my jacket, and shrugged myself into it. I grabbed my shoulder bag and fished out my car keys, realizing as I stepped out the door how dark and chilly it was. A trip to his hotel was a bad idea. I was tired and I really didn’t feel like driving across town. I stopped in my tracks, wondering how tacky it would be if I called and begged off. I’d spent much of the day with him and I’d have been happy with a stretch of time on my own. I stood there, wishing I hadn’t piped up. Me and my big mouth. I should have done us both a favor and let him off the hook. Now, since I was already in motion, it felt easier to proceed to my car. I unlocked the Mustang and slid under the wheel. I sat for another brief interlude, conflicted and out of sorts. Finally, I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb. I’d have one glass of wine and a quick bite to eat and then I’d come home. Nick was probably more in need of his father’s attention than I was at this point.
• • •
When Dietz answered the door he was in a fresh pair of jeans and a collared shirt, over which he’d pulled a black cashmere sweater. His hair was still damp from the shower and I could smell soap and aftershave. He helped me out of my jacket and tossed it over the arm of a chair. He’d ordered a bottle of Champagne that was nestled in a silver ice bucket frosty with condensation. He picked up the bottle, put a cloth over the top, and worked the cork out with his thumbs. He held up a Champagne flute, his way of asking if he could pour me a glass.
“By all means.”
The room was larger than my apartment, no big surprise. My studio is small, which is why it suits me so well. Here the king-size bed seemed to dominate the room with its puffy white duvet like a heavy layer of snow. The bedframe was topped with an ornate wrought-iron crown. The walls were a buttery yellow, the Oriental rug awash in muted colors, mild green dominating. There was a corner fireplace with a real wood fire, throwing out a warmth I couldn’t quite feel from where I stood. The furniture looked antique, which may or may not have been the case.
Dietz handed me my Champagne flute and I took a sip, experiencing the surprise on my tongue. If I drink Champagne at all, it’s the cheap stuff, which is closer to a freshly poured glass of tonic water with harsh undertones. This was delicate, like a mouth full of sunshine and butterflies. I watched him pour a glass for himself.
“Have a seat,” he said.
I settled on a leather-upholstered easy chair with a matching ottoman, one of two set at angles on either side of the snapping fire. The bed was stacked three deep with pillows, each covered in a faded chintz and trimmed with a thick fringe. Dietz had money. I had no idea how he’d come by it. To hear him tell it, his family was a shiftless lot of gypsies and vagabonds. His father worked the oil fields when jobs were available and otherwise spent his life crisscrossing the country in a series of dilapidated station wagons and vans. His mother rode shotgun, her bare feet propped on the dashboard while she drank beer and tossed empty cans out the window. Dietz and his grandmother occupied the backseat, playing cards or reading road maps and picking out towns with weird names. They made a point of traveling south for the winter, usually to Florida, but any place warm would do. If they couldn’t afford a motel, they slept in the car. If money was
really
in short supply, they’d cruise country roads and raid kitchen gardens for something to eat. He was largely homeschooled and he had little in the way of formal education. I suspected his job history was checkered, yet he seemed at home in this opulent hotel room, which felt alien to me.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Getting there.”
“We should probably take a look at the menu. Room service is slow at this hour, so the sooner we order, the better off we’ll be.”
He handed me a menu while he sat down in the other leather chair with a menu of his own.
The bifold was oversize, printed on heavy card stock. I ran an eye down both pages, which were writ in an elegant hand as though a scribe had just left the premises. Shrimp cocktail was $14. Asparagus soup, $10. All of the entrees were $35 or more. Personally, I’d have preferred a peanut butter and pickle sandwich; seventy-five cents max. “A bit pricey, isn’t it?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat. If you’re feeling cheap, have a sandwich.”
“Who said anything about cheap? The cheeseburger’s twenty-one dollars! Two dollars more if you add bacon or avocado.”
“Relax. The burgers are prime sirloin ground to order. The patties are hand-formed and cooked any way you like.”